Real Party Girls Upskirt Video with panty flash in Slow Motion

Real Party Girls Upskirt Video with panty flash in Slow Motion
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A Travel Guide for the Single Girl Arriving at the Gare St. Lazare, you'll be tempted to hop into one of the omnipresent Parisian taxis to carry you and all your luggage straight to your hotel.


But before you do so, why not do what les Parisiennes do? Take a quick walk over to Printemps or Lafayettes, the large department stores just around the corner from the train station, and pick out a selection of naughty French lingerie.

It's one of my favourite activities when traveling to Paris, and this trip would be no exception. Don't worry if you don't speak French tres bien (tray bee-en). I've found that in the lingerie section, if you just pick one of the sales girls with very short hair and a pierced tongue, she'll be glad to help you out. On this day, my clerk was particularly helpful as I was having trouble communicating my bra size. She expertly weighed each of my (rather large, I must admit) breasts with her nimble fingers, even tweaking my nipples into a hardened state ("so zat ah weel see what zey look lahk ondair all condee-see-ons", she explained professionally), then quite accurately pronounced them 38 Ds (which is what I thought I had said in the first place, but I guess my accent was just too much for her).

She went through a similar ritual when I expressed an interest in buying some lacy panties, and again (with that classic roll of her pretty French eyes) as I requested stockings and garters.

I finally settled on a red and black corset that left most of my breasts, including my nipples, exposed, a frilly pair of black crotchless panties, and long, black sheer nylon stockings. The corset had garter straps attached, so I was all set. I carefully pocketed the itemized invoice in my purse.

Hold on to the invoice - it may come in handy later. Saying merci (mair-see) to the girl for all her valuable help, I now headed out to find a taxi. Forty minutes later, I was comfortably seated in the back of a cab on the way to my hotel on the left bank. I paid the driver in cash, but if you're traveling on a budget, you'll usually find that the driver will accept a blowjob as full payment.

At the hotel, I quickly checked into my room, and a dozen or so bellboys fought over my luggage. I selected one (based solely on the size of his bulge, I confess!) and we headed up to my room. On the elevator, he said, "Is madame aware zat 'er buttons are undone down to ze navvel?" Madame was not, and noticing that I had my purse in one hand, and my purchases in the other, the bellboy graciously did them up for me.

In my room, I was embarrassed to discover that I had nothing smaller than a hundred euro note - which is much too big a tip even for a garcon who had helped me with my blouse. I thought about offering him a blowjob, but no: I had come to Paris this time with the express purpose of performing French sex at that most French of places, the Eiffel Tower.

I was not going to spoil the delicious anticipation of that event before I had even closed the door to my room. Apprehensive that he would think I was short-tipping him, I quickly pulled his cock out of his bellboy trousers and proceeded to jerk him off.

It was an impressive hunk of French sausage. In no time, he had spurted onto the carpet by the entrance to the room.


He just stood there with a stunned look on his face for a moment, and I thought perhaps I had indeed stiffed him.

Then he quickly said, "Ah weel send someone to clean zat up," and hurried out of the room. A few minutes later another bellboy arrived, and he quickly removed the mess. Then he stood at the door, with his hand out. I began to see a problem developing, and led him over to the toilet before I gave him his tip.

It was late in the day, so I decided just to have a quick bite of dinner and call it a night. I find it's best to get a good first night's sleep in order to be fresh for an early start on the adventures of your first full day in the city of lights.

A friend of mine in London had recommended a cosy little restaurant in the Place Pigalle, so I headed up there. My friend had warned me that the dress code at this place was "sexy-chic", so I decided to try out my nestockings, with a very short skirt, low-cut top and killer heels. He was right! I felt very comfortable in the pretty little brasserie (that's bra-zer-ee, not bra-zee-er), since almost every table was occupied by a sexily-dressed single girl, many of them lingering over a glass of wine and a cigarette (galoises, I'll bet!).

The place had a very friendly atmosphere, as gentleman after gentleman would come in, talk to one the girls for a few minutes, then leave with her.

Often the pretty girl would come back to her table in fifteen or twenty minutes, and resume her drink. I had a number of men ask me to go with them too, but as I hadn't eaten yet I refused politely.

But it was charming to think that these locals would go out of their way to make a stranger feel at home - and Parisians have a reputation for arrogance! My dinner consisted of a wonderful steak with french fries (bisteck avec frites, pronounced "freets") and a glass of Beaujolais.

When I was finished, a nice looking gentleman came over and struck up a conversation with me. "C'est combien?" Say combee-en?) he asked me, which means, "how much?" I glanced at the bill in surprise, and replied, "Twenty three euros". He seemed amazed, slapped the note into my hand, and pulled me up from the table.


It seemed inexpensive to me too, but I had barely enough time to drop the note on the table before he had me out the door. He was very disappointed to find that I didn't live nearby, and before long we were up a dark alley, kissing and fondling each other's private parts.

He was on my breasts like pate de fois gras on a cracker. I had his penis out in short order, and was halfway down his shirt when I remembered my resolution about the Eiffel Tower.

So for the third time since arriving in Paris, I jerked a fellow off. He groaned loudly, then sighed and said, "Alors, what deed ah expect for twonty-sree euros?" and left. I thought that was a bit unkind - just what kind of girl did he think I was? I headed back to the restaurant, where I got a little tipsy - a lot of men bought me drinks that night and some of the were expensive, as much as ten euros each! I decided to leave when a few of the other girls began to get annoyed.

I can only assume I became a little too boisterous.

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Back at the hotel, I was once again beset upon by the entire bellboy staff, and since I was in a bit of a state from all the drink, I agreed to let one of them escort me upstairs.

I needed help getting into my negligee, and he assisted eagerly. He removed all my clothing and folded it neatly, then slipped the flimsy gown over my head, and carried me into bed. He had done an excellent job, clearly beyond the call of duty. When I tried to offer him five euros, he said, "Oh, non, Madame!" and taking me by the hand, guided it to his fly. The light bulb went on (although rather dimly), and I brought him to climax just as I had his peers.

It was only as he was about to cum, and remembered the mess we had made earlier, that I managed to get my face in the way to block every single spurt before it hit the bedspread. Well, so much for my quiet first night in Paris! My early start the next morning didn't actually commence until 11:00. I woke up around ten, and called room service to order coffee, croissants (kwa-sonts) and aspirin. I smiled slyly at myself in the mirror as I remembered where the sticky mess came from as I washed it off my face.

Don't be surprised, as I was, if all three room service requests are delivered individually, by different staff members.

None of them would accept money, and seemed content to settle for just a handjob in the bathroom. I was grateful that the first thing to arrive was the aspirin, so that I could begin to cope with the splitting headache. The young French lad who delivered it astutely guessed that I was hung over, and volunteered to provide a special ancient family remedy that he swore was foolproof.

I gratefully accepted, and discovered that his wonderful massage actually did take my mind off my head. And, he tells me, I don't have any lumps! Feeling invigorated and alive after my breakfast, I quickly don my new lingerie, and toss a tight white cotton dress, cut low in front and short in the skirt, over it.

Then, jumping into a pair of sensible fuck-me pumps (suitable for walking) and glancing in the mirror for one last look, I head out. True, the red and black corset and panties are visible through the white cotton if you look closely enough, but the stocking tops are hidden as long as I tug the skirt down and my nipples are fairly light coloured, so they can barely be seen.

Heading along the Boulevard St. Germain, I descend into the Metro. My first stop will be the Louvre (lewvrah, or lewv, or something). I depart the Metro at Les Halles (lay zall), as did most of the men on the train.

Always the gentlemen, they insist that I go up the stairs before them - and even wait until I am five or ten steps up before they begin to follow.

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The Louvre is one of the highlights of Paris. Not only is it the home of much of the world's best art, it's also alive with Paris' best and brightest aspiring artists copying the masters for practice. While admiring a nude, I am approached by a young fellow who engages me in a fascinating conversation about the way the artist has captured the skin tones on the model's nipples, and enlightening me on the courage of the artist in foregoing the traditional fig leaf, to paint the vagina in all its splendid detail.

I'll never look at a vagina the same way again. He tells me he knows of some other full-frontal nudes in a gallery closed to the public, and asks if I'd like to see them. "Oh, oui!

(oh wee)" I exclaim, and in seconds we are in a locked room, surrounded by some of the most exquisite pussy ever painted. Pointing at one that I thought was brilliant, my new friend declares it amateurish and unrealistic. "Zere are too many leetle folds - no wooman 'as zat much peenk!" he pontificates. Thrilled with the intellectual debate I have become engaged in, I attempt to prove to him that he is wrong.

"Look!" I say, lifting the hem of my skirt and pulling apart the sides of my crotchless panties, "don't I look just like that?" His answer startles me: "oh, non! Yours is - shav-ed, oh la la - but lahk zees one," pointing to another nude who is clearly less excited than our subject snatch.

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Quickly sensing the problem, I enlighten him by beginning to masturbate. He sees my point, and in a fit of intellectual stimulation, rushes to my aid.

Soon, his fingers are all over my spreading snapper. I begin to look a lot like the pussy in the painting. "Steel not zere!" he declares, casting his critical eye back and forth between my dripping sex and the masterpiece. He yanks out his French stick, and plunges it deep inside me. He pumps me like a man lost in the desert with nothing to live on but potato chips suddenly finding a well at an oasis.

When he spurts inside me (don't forget to wear your diaphragm in Paris) and pulls out hastily, he gazes again at my vagina and at the one in the painting. "Madame," he concedes with a bow, "you are correct." From the Louvre, stroll through the Jardin des Tuileries (zhar-dan day twee-le-ree) and onto the Champs Elysees (shons ay-lee-say), remembering to tug your skirt down every few steps - or if necessary, pull your stockings up.

Stop for a late lunch at any one of the myriad bistros and cafes along the way. I've found that if you let the surly French waiters know that it's okay to touch your breasts, they usually lose the attitude, and you can often get a free refill on the glass of excellent Chardonnay (shar-don-nay).

Next, move on to the Arc de Triomphe (arc duh tree-omp). One of the highlights of the Arc is the view from the top, which is often enhanced by the sight of honeymooning lovers embracing by the wall, with the splendors of Paris arrayed below them. On this particular late afternoon, I am lucky enough to find the crowds have thinned, and there is only one couple making out in the corner. Sensing an opportunity for a true Parisian adventure, I approach them cautiously.

A handsome man is French-kissing his lover. To my surprise, I find that the cute little one in the short skirt, with exquisite hair and makeup, is also a man! But I decide to take a chance. " Menage a trois? (m'nazh a twa)" I ask. The cutie breaks the kiss and stares at me.

He/she reaches out and squeezes my left boob. "Oy, noice job, myte!" he exclaims. I've heard my titties called many things in my day, but "job" is not usually one of them. "Thanks!" I reply. The handsome man stares at me critically, then makes a grab for my crotch.

"Kroist, you're a sheila! It's a shiela!" he exclaims in disgust, and the little one says, "Kroiky, them boobs is the ryal thing!" with an air of appreciation.

"Git lost, ya stiypid cunt", the real man says, as he plunges his tongue back down the little one's throat. Ah well, nothing ventured, nothing gained. Alone with the elevator operator on the way back down, I catch him staring at my breasts. My nipples are hard from the cool wind up top. "All right," I smile, and he seems surprised as I slip his hand inside my top.

My trip to the Arc de Triomphe is not a complete waste, I think, as I make my way towards my ultimate destination - the Tour Eiffel (toor ee-fell). Walk along the Avenue Kleber (don't worry, it's not a French word, so you can pronounce it any way you please) to the Palais du Chaillot (pal-ay doo shy-oh), and from there across the bridge to the Champs de Mars (shons duh mar) and the tower.

You're now ready to pick up the bloke for the magical blowjob! You may choose to settle for one of the Algerians selling trinkets, scarves and carpets at the foot of the bridge, but don't be fooled by that old saying about the size of all black men - these are Algerians, not Americans.

See my article, "Travels with Tessa: Going Down in Dixie", where I sample much of the population of the American south. As an experiment in socio-biology, I made it a point of saying to my black lovers, "My, you're hung bigger than an Algerian!" and every single one of them replied, "Damn straight!" I concluded from that that American blacks are well aware of their differences with their Northern African cousins.


But back to Paris. Sauntering towards the tower, keep your eyes open for likely candidates. I find one man who looks particularly appealing. I approach him, and make the offer.

He glances nervously at a woman standing about six feet (or 1.829 metres, as the French would say) away, with three children. She rushes over, and starts yammering away in French too fast for me to comprehend, accompanied by wild gestures, but I think it meant that they were busy. Next I approach a young man whose bulge is obvious through his cut-offs, and who had been eying me rather hungrily, if I'm any judge of human character.

"Bonjour, monsieur. Voudrais-vous le pipe? (bon-joor, m'syoor. vood-ray voo luh peep)," I ask him, which literally means, "Good day, sir. Desire-you the blowjob?" and is the traditional way that a French girl would formally offer to fellate a complete stranger. He stands wide-eyed and stunned for a moment. I begin to wonder whether he hasn't understood my accent, or whether he's just not interested, so I go into action. Remember that I suggested that the itemized invoice for the sexy underwear might come in handy?

Pulling the slip of paper out of my purse, I hand it to him. Then, I point to the invoice, followed by my breasts, my ass and my legs. Comprehension dawns, and his eyes get wider, if that's possible. I guess the lingerie did the trick, for he agrees, and I lead him to the tower. He graciously offers to by the tickets for the lift to the top platform, which cost a pretty centime (son-teem).

The ride to the top is exhilarating. My new friend makes it even more exciting by sticking his hand up the back of my skirt and down my new panties on the way up. Was that a little goose I felt?

I pat his bulge, which is even bigger now than it was on the ground. I take that as a compliment.

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His name is Pierre (who'd have guessed?). I would have been happy to have him climb the railings at the corner of the top platform and brace himself against the girders, so that I can blow him from a standing position, but Pierre seems to want a bit of privacy. I can respect that. We head out onto the open staircases that extend from the ground to the top of the Eiffel Tower. It's a wonderful compromise between Pierre's desire for privacy and my own, well, slightly more exhibitionist nature.

There - the secret's out! Pierre's lovely big coq (kok) is free of its coop in no time. It's in my mouth faster than a hardon in a whorehouse.

He manages to pull my white dress up to my neck. He buries his face in my "beeg fawkeen teets", as he called them, and his fingers in my very damp "moof". This man is a stud! I blow and I suck and I blow some more.

His prick bangs against the back of my throat time and again. "Did you know that in English, this is called Frenching?" I ask, smiling at the irony, dragging my mouth off his manhood. But he doesn't want to talk.

He places his hand on the back of my head and jams it back down onto his waving penis. It seems a troop of teenaged English schoolboys have decided to forego the expense of the lift and climb the stairs, because we soon have an audience clad in gray trousers and maroon jackets, commenting on our performance in charming cockney accents.

Pierre is shocked at first, but he chooses not to stop just then. Within seconds, however, he shoots a large load of cum down my open throat. I swallow every single drop - I want this to be the perfect French blowjob. Pierre is gone in seconds, and for one glorious moment I think about blowing all these young lads.

But no, I don't know what the age of consent is under French law, and I'm not into kiddie stuff. I'm no pervert. They do seem anxious to help me get dressed again, and when I finally walk back out onto the platform, I'm confident that my dress is smoothed out, my stockings are pulled up with no wrinkles, and that my breasts are neatly back into their half-cups.

Pierre is still waiting for the elevator. We ride down together, although we didn't speak much. He seemed very interested in the view.

When the doors open back at ground level, a large crowd awaits us, and we get a standing ovation. Imagine that! For oral sex in Paris! It feels a bit like beating the English at football. Pierre has disappeared into the throng. Back at the hotel, the usual crowd of bellboys vied to see who would escort me to my room. After such an exhaustingly sexual day, I was feeling a little naughty myself, so I decided to see if maybe I could seduce one of these garcons up in my room.

Once again (I am a little vixen, aren't I?) I surveyed the crotches of the bellboy trousers, and pick the most impressive one. Back in the room, I quickly closed the door and before he could even ask for his tip, I threw off my dress. Was this seduction ploy going to work? Yes! Standing before him in the corset, crotchless panties, long black stockings and heels, breasts and pussy exposed, I watched him unzip his fly and whip out his very erect penis.

Before long, he had everything else off, and he was banging me doggie-style on the bed. I climaxed in seconds, and he was not far behind me.

Conscious of not wanting to take advantage of the boy, I tipped him five euros, which he accepted gratefully and left. That night, I decided to avoid the temptations of Paris completely and settled for room service. Once again, my order was delivered in stages, and once again, nobody wanted to accept money as a tip. They even delivered dessert and coffee (separately, as was the custom), which I hadn't ordered!

I thanked heaven that I had managed to get the Oral at the Eiffel out of the way, so that I could tip these hardworking boys with the blowjobs they really deserved.

The rest of my trip was consumed with sex and sightseeing the way only Paris can offer it - including a wonderful afternoon at the flea markets of Porte de Clignancourt (just as it's spelled).

For you single girls traveling to Paris, here's my advice: don't forget your contraception; don't fear the expense - you can find plenty of ways to keep your costs down; don't be a cheap tipper - it's worth it in the long run and these people work hard for a living; and don't worry about bringing all your naughty underwear - there's plenty to be had in Paris!